


Methods of Control

by BibliophileLove



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1941102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BibliophileLove/pseuds/BibliophileLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on how Jim met Sebastian and how their relationship developed. Just some late night spew, an idea that had been banging around in my head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really plan on continuing this, it was intended to be more of a one-shot than anything. But if I get some requests to explore the idea a bit more then perhaps I'll add to it. Let me know what you think?

_Sheep._

That’s all they were, livestock. Simple minded animals, mulling around, prattling on about their problems, spewing self absorbed nonsense that mattered very little to me. I was surrounded by them, a self inflicted situation that I can’t recall my reasons for now, as I sat in the boorish little shop on the corner of Brooke’s Road and Fifth. It was raining that day as I solemnly and singularly occupied the circular wooden table for two, but it is always raining in London. I was drinking, well, considering the cup of terrible muddy water masquerading as coffee on the table in front of me as I stared out at the beasts without any amount of interest. I remember watching them, hearing without listening, seeing without observing.

 

Choosing my next target, perhaps.

 

It had been months since I had received the news, and I had had plenty of time to adjust. The pieces of my life that had been shattered and scattered like shards of glass on a hard floor still cut me deeply, but I had grown used to their presence. The pain of it was no longer sharp and incapacitating, but had dulled down to a throbbing ache in my consciousness. Never gone, never forgotten, and always clouding my mind with their insistent mocking. A life taken from me, an existence, ripped from me like air from my lungs.

 

 _Dishonorable Discharge._ The words are sour in my head, prickling up my throat like bile. I clench my jaw and shuffle my feet against the hard floor in discomfort, resolutely staring out of the watery window. My animosity however, is not caused by the displeasure of losing my place amongst their ranks, but because I had lost my _purpose_. My reason for existing, the only cause I had to rise from my bed in the early light of morning, my drive, my _excuse_.

 

My excuse for doing the things that I do.

 

Without the orders, without the permission, without the missions I was… wasted. My single purpose had been taken away from me. Had been torn from me like wings from a bird. I had no direction, I was permanently drifting, like a planet knocked out of orbit. What was I to follow now, without my mission? My focus had no target. My thoughts, my urges, scattered around without an objective. But my desire was too strong, my need outweighed and overcame my lack of direction, leaving me hurtling towards anything, anyone that could fill that hole gnawing away at the inside of my head.

 

Perhaps I had no need of an excuse.

 

It took months for me to realize, days upon days upon weeks for me to come to the conclusion that it was possible, if not all together necessary, for me to continue operating without the orders. I still had the drive, the focus, the _need_. I could manage without the direction. I merely required the target.

 

But how to choose a target? I was so used to relying on orders, so used to being dependent on direction and outside influence, that I found it hard to take control and operate on my own. I merely wanted someone to need my talent, to direct it appropriately and make use of it. To make me feel useful. To make me feel needed, appreciated.

 

All the talent and willingness in the world is useless without proper need for it. I had always followed orders, reveling in the lack of control, just obeying and carrying out the tasks in which I excelled, enjoying the praise and encouragement. Until it was taken from me.

 

My _control_ had been taken. I needed the control, without it I merely drifted. Without purpose. Yes, I finally realized that I could take matters into my own hands. I could sit quietly on a park bench in the afternoons, observing the livestock and choosing which one would look best at the end of my scope. I could wait, marking them and fixating on them until the time presented itself, and I found myself perched on an abandoned rooftop, the comforting and familiar hardness of the rifle in my grip and the lens pressed close to my eye.

 

And the little pull, the subtle jerk, the drop of a body on pavement so far away that my ears could not pick up the sound of flesh hitting the concrete, it worked. The pleasure settled over me like a warm blanket, and for a short time, I had purpose. But then the task was over, and I was left drifting again, without reason or aim.

 

Without the control.

 

Perhaps these civilians were merely lacking challenge. I began to chose more difficult targets, guarded men filled with greed and money, shooting through windows more than three buildings away, or political figures being carted in limo’s behind tinted glass. It made no difference to me, and it mattered little who they were or how hard they were to achieve, all that mattered was the act. But even though I had finally found a way to act, I still lacked my _purpose_. I still lacked my _control_.

 

Travel helped a little. Moving helped, creeping from city to city, choosing new targets at random, never staying longer than the amount of time to complete my self imposed mission. I began to lose myself, becoming more and more aimless as I went, giving no thought or care to where I ended up next, living out of my single case, my only possession, which never left my sight for long.

 

I took small jobs here and there, applying my skills for money or favors, things required for my own survival, such as food and a safe place to sleep. Those who had need for my talents were appreciative, some even with a hint of wistful longing in their eyes, but they lacked what I needed. They lacked the control, the dominance that I required in my purpose. They were merely men needing someone to get the job done. None of them had the firm hand I required, none of them were able to take my talents and hone them into what they could be.

 

So I wandered, never stopping, merely searching. Seeking purpose. Seeking _control_.

 

It was no surprise that I found myself back here, in London. It was familiar, it was where I began.  It’s wet cement and cobblestone streets, yellow lamps and doors with peeling paint, the masses of people with their long coats and umbrella, faces hidden beneath the anonymity. The air, wet and thick and grey, filling my lungs and settling like a comforting patina over my skin.

 

It was that day, in the little shop, with the rain pouring down out the window, watching the muddled lights from cars passing through murky glass, that I first felt his presence. I suppose I should have been suspicious, I should have questioned how he had found me, how he had known. But now that I look back, I consciously see what I had unconsciously sensed, even then.

 

It is not the place of the tool to question the hand who wields it. It is not the place of the pet to question the owner. It is not the place of the servant to question his master. He simply obeys.

 

I remember thinking that he was young, so young even though he was not that much younger than myself, and that he was different from the rest of them. A wolf, among the sheep.

 

My gaze was drawn to him even before he turned, raking hungrily over the long black coat that hid him from view. It was easy to see that he was a small man, slim and under six foot, with neatly styled dark hair. I waited for him to turn, suffering an unusual sense of impatience. When he did, paper cup of coffee in hand, I suppressed the urge to fidget, feeling the strong need to straighten my posture and smooth the wrinkles in my shirt.

 

My focus sharpened as I watched him approach me. He moved so subtly, so simply and easily, as he if had all the time in the world to reach the little table that I occupied. His shoes, expensive italian leather, made no sound as they came to a stop next to me, his suit, perfectly fitted and immaculate. His eyes were trained on mine with an intensity that surprised me. I remember thinking that they may have been brown in the light of the sun, but in the dimness of the little shop they were black. Black and all consuming.

 

When he spoke, his voice took me by surprise. So unassuming. So… soft.

 

“Hello Sebastian, I’m so _pleased_ you could meet me today.” He said, looking down at me with a smile so pleasant and familiar that you would think we were old, dear friends. He sat without invitation, smoothing the fine material of his trousers with pale, deliberate fingers, crossing one leg over the other while he rested the hand holding his coffee on the table, just inches from my own.

 

The dark shadow of stubble caressed his face lovingly, without a hint of carelessness, but instead with an alluring and purposeful intent. His skin was pale, not unusual in London, made even lighter by the blackness of his coat and hair. And his eyes… wide with an almost childlike innocence, but something boiled down beneath the surface. Something dark, and unstable. I felt the breath catch in my throat.

 

My reaction then, or reactions, passed in stages. First, was surprise. This young man knew me, apparently, though I was certain I had never seen him before in my life. Next was confusion, doubt. Did I know him? Was I suppose to? Had the next step in my downward spiral been to make acquaintances and plan meetings that I would later not remember? Third was conviction. No, I would have remembered him. I was certain that I had never seen him before. Fourth, was finally, fear.

 

Which lasted so briefly, before the next, and more permanent emotion overwhelmed my brain. _Relief._

 

Somehow then, it hit me. It all made sense. Here, this man, was exactly what I had been looking for. I knew, I was positive, even as I watched him glance around with casual boredom, his soft voice commenting on the unacceptable quality of beverages offered, his lower lip protruding in an exaggerated pout. I knew this man would somehow solve my problem, as sure as I knew he was not what he seemed.

 

“You’re late.” I said, speaking softly as I was inclined, but knowing that he would hear me nonetheless. I could not bring my gaze to leave his face.

 

“Yes well, I’ve been rather busy, you know. The game doesn’t play itself.” He said, wiggling a finger at me as though I was a child who had been naughty. And I had been. And I was suddenly hoping that I would be again, very soon.

 

“Why have you come?” I asked. I needed to be sure. I needed confirmation that my hopes were indeed given justification.

 

“Well Sebby, my dear, I have come to realize that I need a new game piece.” He simpered, batting his eyes at me suggestively, before both hands came to rest on the table and he leaned forward towards me. His eyes grew suddenly darker than before, and empty of all previous innocence, his posture stiff and rigid, the lines around his face more pronounced. But it was his voice, his voice that changed the most. I could not suppress the shiver of anticipation at his words, at his _complete control_. “Playtime is over. It’s time for the real work to begin. Are you ready?”

 

Oh god, _yes_.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea wouldn't leave me alone, so I'm just going to roll with it. Leave me a comment, let me know what you think?
> 
> Also, some of this information (locations and other technical-type things) I got from Google. If you find anything that doesn't sound right or is just plain wrong, please don't hesitate to tell me so I can fix it. Thanks!

I had never known anyone to operate on the same level of mercurial efficiency as James Moriarty.

 

His very name took me weeks to discover. I operated proficiently enough, albeit maddeningly curious, as I searched for information about him through my various contacts unsuccessfully. He had left me that day with very little solid information about his person, the most important being that he was indeed what I was searching for, and that he would be in contact with me very soon concerning my services. But he left me no name, no number to reach him by or any other means to contact him. I was instructed to wait, that he would be in touch by his own means, in his own time.

 

So I quietly searched for any information that I could find, barely acquiring so much as a whisper of a powerful figure, working from the shadows of London’s criminal elite. I searched, and I waited.

 

The minuscule amount of information I was able to acquire only left me more eager. His prowess in the business that we both frequented was awe inspiring, his rumored feats most impressive. He was everywhere, his influence stretched farther than I could have imagined, his eyes saw everything, there was no dark corner that his hand could not reach.

 

He was the homeless man in the alley, watching as you walked by. He was the businessman sitting on the other side of the bench reading a paper, listening discreetly to your conversation as you chatted on your mobile. He was the elderly cabbie who smiled warmly at you as you slid into the backseat. He was the young woman, walking her dog down the street in front of your house.

 

His operation was an entire web of informants and runners and spies, all at the employ of his mercy and command, jumping willing or forced or bribed as he pulled their strings with expertly devious intentions. And his intentions were secrets wrapped in whispers wrapped in shadows, impossible to discover or decipher unless by his own design. Nothing moved without his hand giving the initial push, no words spoken without first being uttered from his own pale lips.

 

When definite word finally reached my ears, it was not rewarded by my own efforts, of course, but by the man himself.  

 

It was nothing more than a stranger bumping into me on a busy street, striding away into the thick crowd before I was able to determine their identity, but not before I felt the hand slide deftly into my pocket. I searched the pocket and felt my fingers wrap around a folded piece of paper, my heart accelerated excitedly. I did not remove the note and read it right away. I waited, showing no reaction to whoever was surely watching from afar, as I strode back to my measly flat and shut and bolted the door behind me.

 

Not until I was safely locked away from prying eyes did I pull out the paper with slow fingers.

 

_51.529N 0.155W_

_201110125 1007_

_Black coat. Red cap._

For a fraction of a second, I hesitated, my brain unable to make sense of the jumbled numbers and letters on the page, as I had expected something entirely different. But then my training kicked in, and with a sense of demented glee I realized the inked figures for what they were. And I rejoiced in them.

 

The first line, coordinates. How many times had I been given coordinates while in the service? Simple. The second line was just as easy, military date and time. October twelfth, two thousand and eleven, at ten o’seven AM. It was the third line that gave me pause. _“Black coat. Red cap.”_

 

Was he requesting a meeting, and asking me to wear a black coat and a red cap? Was he implying that he himself would be wearing a black coat and red cap? I knew the location of the coordinates would shed some light, so I promptly took out my phone and discovered that the location was the Open Air Theatre in Regent’s Park. The park would be quite crowded on a Saturday morning, plenty of cover for a covert meeting. But why a Saturday morning- I checked the current date -six days from now? Why would he want to meet me at Regent’s Park? There had to be some significance, he didn’t strike me as a man to do anything without direct purpose. I could see no relevance of the date or location. So not a meeting then, something else.

 

What could he want from me, on _that_ day, at _that_ location. What he wanted from me… and then I let my head fall back, sighing contentedly at the ceiling while simultaneously berating myself for taking so long to realize. What he wanted from _me._

 

What was I to give this man? What did he want from me, specifically? My services, of course. A place, a time, a _description_. Of a _target_. Of course.

 

I nearly fell to my knees, overcome with pleasure.

 

It was an order, a test. He required my skills, and I was more than happy to oblige him. I clutched the now crumpled paper in my hand, clinging to it desperately, unwilling to let it go even for a moment. It was like a lifeline, tethering me to the one person who could give me back my worth, my _purpose._

 

Oh, how I wanted to please him. I wanted to impress him. I wanted him to be so damned happy with me, I would have knelt before him eagerly, offering my gun, my services, my very life to his every whim. Anything, for him, for he who had given me what I needed so, so badly. Quite the irrational reaction, I realized much later, to someone who I had only met once before and knew almost nothing about.

 

Not that it mattered.

 

I spent the next five days casing the park, inspecting from every angle, observing security and discovering shift changes, familiarizing myself intimately with the layout of surrounding buildings, subways and alleys, knowing my every option. I chose a rooftop on Park Road, as the theatre was easily visible across the water, almost too easy. It wouldn’t be challenging at all. But the point wasn’t to show off, it was to get the job done efficiently and please him. I would do so, and the rooftop off of Park Road was the most appropriate choice.

  
  
  


I timed my arrival perfectly. I woke that morning and dressed slowly, meticulously, in plain clothes chosen for their ambiguity. I had breakfast at a small shop down the road from my flat, eating without relish. When I finished, I made my way slowly to where my case was hidden and retrieved it, before strolling through the Saturday London crowds towards Regent’s Park. My route had been deliberately mapped out before hand, as well as the route I would take after my task was done.

 

I arrived precisely at ten, at the predetermined location, wearing my coat and gloves to protect my extremities from the chill in the air. After assembling my equipment, I kept my hands tucked under my arms for warmth. It would not do for them to shake because of the cold.

 

The wait was agonizing. Mere minutes, stretched out for an eternity.

 

I stared through my scope, searching the masses of people gathered upon the lawns of the park. Families together, children laughing and running, couples walking arm and arm. Searching, until I found my intended target. It didn’t take long.

 

The red cap caught my attention first. A man, middle aged, I saw his face briefly before he turned away, the collar of his black coat hiding his jaw from view. He was no one that I recognized, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I had.

 

I could have taken the shot then, two minutes early, but my instructions had been very specific. So I waited, forcing out deep, even breaths while the seconds dragged by. The man seemed to be waiting for someone, a companion or a colleague. The practical part of me hoped that whoever he was expecting did not show, simply because he was in sight and I did not want him to move.

 

My heart was beating heavily against my ribs when the display of my watch finally relented, showing the appropriate time. I waited fifteen more seconds, to allow for discrepancies in different time keeping devices, before carefully lining up my shot once again. It was as easy as breathing.

 

The pull of my finger, the jerk, the fall. Textbook.

 

I had my equipment assembled and was strolling purposefully across the roof and to my predetermined escape route before the crowd below started to realize that the man had fallen dead. I arrived at the proper place to store my case without meeting anyone, and was back on the sidewalk, mixed in with the crowd by ten after. It could not have gone better.

 

Thirteen days passed before I was contacted again. Another piece of paper, this time slipped into my mailbox, displaying the same type of message; a location, a date, a time, a target. Another order, another test. I obeyed easily once again, aware that I was under surveillance.

 

Another note, nine days later, stuffed inside my boot, with similar instructions. I was not surprised that they had gotten inside my flat. I was careful to show no aversion, only eagerness to please, to comply. I completed my task once again, flawlessly.

 

The dance went on for months, and my patience never wavered. I was controlled, contained and obedient. I was being tested, and was determined to succeed and please him. I waited, calm and willing, while he poked and prodded, discovering my talents and limits. I frequently imagined him watching me, fantasizing about the delighted gleam in his wide eyes as I carried out his wishes. His existence haunted my every thought, his voice reverberated through my dreams every night.

 

A man whose name I did not know, whose face I had seen only once. An invisible authority, who I followed with blind, reverent faith.

 

Seven months after the day in the coffee shop, he found me again.

 

I had moved, as I was unable to keep my flat due to lack of funds. I was sleeping in halfway houses or in abandoned buildings, moving daily and eating very little. It was just after nightfall, the air warm and wet around me as I strolled down the sidewalk. I was hunting, but not for my usual prey.

 

I was swaying exaggeratedly, singing under my breath, rising in pitch before slurring words out like vomit. It was dark out, and I groaned loudly as I passed under a street light, turning sharply and nearly falling as I ducked into an ally, fumbling with my zip as I stepped around a few overflowing bins. I huffed out a smile as I heard the quick steps behind me, loud as the feet made purchase across wet pavement.

 

The knife was sharp against my throat, the hand tugging my hair without mercy.

“Empty your pockets. Now.” He growled in my ear, yanking at the back of my head. I could smell his foul breath as it ghosted across the side of my face. I allowed myself a moment to smile in triumph.

 

It took no effort to twist out of his hold, letting him pull quite a few strands of hair from my scalp before he released me. I assaulted him with distant precision, incapacitating him quickly with minimum damage to my own person. I searched his pockets thoroughly as he lay prone on the ground, body jerking bonelessly as I tugged at pockets.

 

I didn’t recover much, a few bills, barely enough to buy dinner. I left all of his personal effects, but it was the folded piece of paper in his right jacket pocket that violently sucked the air from my lungs. I knew, even before I smoothed out the crumpled message under a street lamp two blocks away, that I had finally reached the next step in the game. _His_ game.

_2013 St. Vincent Street, Glasglow_

_20120317 1400_

The place, the location, the time, but no target. This was different, this was no job. It was an appointment.

 

I closed my eyes briefly, suppressing my errant excitement before it betrayed me, as I was sure he was watching me even then. I opened my eyes to check the date again. I had just over three weeks to reach Glasglow.

 

He had made his next move, directing his pawn across the board, pulling at the strings of his web. Eager to be a part of his game, I stuffed the paper into my pocket and allowed myself a smile.

 

Less than two hours later, I was stowed away on a train, on my way to Scotland.

  
  



End file.
